2007+Misc

(ANDREW--PLEASE INDENT sentence #1, #2, #15, #19)

Adventures in the Water Closet Lisa Dobbs

Life can present some interesting events. At a recent training I respectfully overheard a humorous conversation regarding the usage of the water closet. The colleague across the table recounted the time of entering the restroom not knowing she should perform a 360 degree inspection before taking place on the porcelain throne. The first stall had evidence floating so she desperately entered the next available stall. She stated that she should have known as this was typical of her day. Thinking she should have made a quick sweep, Sarah realized that the cubicle she selected should have had a “closed for repairs” sign on the outside of the door. She was really in a hurry! As you can already deduct, Sarah is a member of the female gender so she dropped her undergarment and proceeded with the necessary task. Little did she know, the seat evidently had become unattached and the lid slid precariously back and forth. Carefully, carrying on with necessity she happened to observe that not only one but both toilet tissue dispensers were totally empty. Oh that really bites. What next? She then discovered the urge to empty her bowels. At this point Sarah was reminded that she is the only occupant in the room.

Sarah appeared to be a proper acting adult so she was truly relieved that she was not exposing another unfortunate human to the incredibly offensive, not to mention disgusting odor. She quickly pressed down on the silver handle as she once heard that if one does this frequently then the aroma has less chance to permeate the atmosphere. She was fresh out of her travel sized air freshener and was thinking it would definitely come in handy right then. She recalled that she still did not have the proper paper to finish her business. She patiently waited and welcomed the sound of an opened door.

She said to herself, “I hope that the new occupant selects the stall on either side of me. By now there was minimal evidence of the unavoidable smell. Embarrassed of the predicament, she meekly requested from the stranger some tissue. The neighbor generously complies and chuckles trying to reassure her stall-mate that this happened to her on many occasions. The captive thinks again to herself, “I wonder if it is one of my other classmates next to me? This incident is no longer secretly-shared. How will I make my exit?”

She exited her untimely captivity and approached the wash basin. “Oh great,” she chuckles as she pressed the soap dispenser, discovering that this is also empty. You would think a district facility that was hosting a weekly training would have checked the restrooms a little more efficiently. Following the waving of hands under the water she determined that there were no towels and the hand dryer was not functional. Immediately, thoughts zoomed across her mind that the surfaces could possibly be contaminated by the previous visitors. Yuck!

As if this was not enough, as she was returning to her seat another colleague quietly approached Sarah and informed her that there is a trail of toilet tissue stuck in her pants and following her. What will be Sarah’s next adventure?

Rodney at the Art Museum By T. Rose

In front of me is a photograph of a man standing on a porch of what appears to be an institution. The photo is titled- A Village Pet, Rodney. (1936) I’m guessing Rodney was the town crazy man. He has a look in his eye… so far away…distant… he doesn’t seem to know the photographer is taking his portrait… candid as it is. He looks frozen… scared… hesitant… the fear is in his posture. In his left hand he holds a stick or cane. His right hand is hidden as if he is hiding something behind his back. Is he going to be in trouble with the guardians? Is he hiding a precious memento like a piece of his special blanket, a trinket, rock, feather, candy, or… the list goes on and on. What is it? Rodney, share with me, let me see the treasure from your hand. I won’t hurt you. I won’t tell anyone what you’ve found to be so valuable. Your sanity… is it still with you? I know it’s frightening not to remember simple things. Suddenly becoming disoriented- where am I… what is this place…who are you…who am I? Stay calm. Don’t panic. It will pass. IT WILL PASS, won’t it? I’m helpless. I don’t recognize you. Do I know you? Rodney, I know the experience. Will I end up like you, the Village Pet, Rodney?

Moving Day Treasures By Jeff H. Roper Here comes the postman. Harry, Suzy, Penny, Sally, Jeff, and John could hardly wait for him to get to the Collier's house. Surely it must come in today's mail.

Not much gets 4th graders in Oklahoma City excited in the late 1960's. The fourth of July came and went last week. All the neighbor kids had a blast shooting off fireworks. We were only allowed to shoot off smoke bombs, snakes, and black cats, but it was still a blast. Nevertheless, this week has been boring. Does the mailman have the Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys spy de-coder kit in his mailbag or not?

Harry, Suzy, Penny, Sally, Jeff, and John sure had to eat tons of Captain Crunch cereal in order to have enough box tops to get the kit. There were so many items in the kit--how were the six kids going to divide up the treasure? We all agreed. We'd play marbles for each item.

What a great game in the late 60's. It was invented just for our neighborhood and specifically for the Collier's living room. We played marbles in the Collier's den with the brand-new thick fire engine red shag carpeting. We loved that room because it was cluttered with furniture--perfect hiding places for marbles. And, because the contour of the extra long carpet shags, it was an equal playing field. It wasa not automatic when you shot the marble 6 inches to hit another marble. You might miss due to an unruly carpet shag. Johnny looked into the mailbox. Sure enough, a package from Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys corporate headquarters. We opened up the kit and pulled out each individual item and our mouths salivated with greed. We decided to play marbles right then and there. We'd battle for the little items first and save the big prizes for later. Personally, I won an eraser, a plastic coin, and a purple plastic tweezer that glowed at night. That was cool! Now the grand finale. We play for the spyglass itself. The big pressure marble game. I pull out my trusty white marble that hasn't let me down. I strike the marble sharply with a snap of my left thumb and left forefinger. I hid my marble behind the big love seat. It stayed hidden for several minutes. Oops, Sally is out. Then Peggy. Followed shortly by Harry.

Johnny is cleaning up on everybody. Johnny was older than everyone else and kind of a bully. I knew he wanted that spyglass. I made a defensive move and put my white marble half hidden behind a corner of a coffee table leg. Johnny's purple marble hit the coffee table leg and did not affect my marble. I tapped my marble about 1/2" and I had won. The Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys spyglass was mine.

Forty years later I find myself moving to another town, another job. Here I am in the middle of our new garage moving a heavy old box. The box rips in half and out spilled a plastic coin, the white marble, the purple tweezers (light still works), eraser, and the spyglass.

I smiled at my childhood treasures. I flicked that white marble across the full garage floor until it found its resting place. I grinned and reminded myself that is perfectly fine to entertain my inner child.

Treasures Lost, Lost Treasures By T. Rose

And then IT happened…

The two Tigers began to growl: //“Hey, Hey Kid, We’re ready.// //We love the dirt – No place like home.// //Ya’ know, Kid, we could really have some fun!// //Don’t care about the others.// //We love the chase, don’t you, Kid?// //Awwww, come on, let’s roll.”//

Then one Bluebird whispered: //“Pssst, I want to go with you, pleeeease…// //I don’t like crowds, you see,// //I’m trapped in here with the others.// //Take me with you Kid, I’ll be quiet,// //I promise, pleeease, I’m nothing like the Tigers.”//

Suddenly, three Plain Janes squealed: //“Ping, Bong, Splat! Yoooo-hoooo, kid!// //We wanna go too. We are exciting!// //We’re quick and simple, no high demands.// //You can count on us!”//

Then SILENCE… //“Now, I **__KNOW__,** I did not just hear five lost marbles// //talking to me, **or**, did I?// //Huh-Umph! LOSING MY Marbles – Ha!// //Nawwwwwwwww…”//

Ralph By Marilyn Darnell

My monster, Ralph, is a two-eyed, 2-horned hungry tech consultant eater. He right clicks his teeth when he finds a juicy one, and he makes this terrible drooling sound--kinda like gurgling but it sounds more like googling! Ralphie is not font of mice, but he doesn’t hesitate to take a big byte out of any tech who happens to wander in close. As a matter of fact, if that techie isn’t too big--he downloads him in one big gulp. Unfortunately, Ralphie has an eating disorder and oftentimes gorges himself. What a mess!!--cause then he has to copy and paste to a new file or totally delete everything he ate and dump it in the trash. Ralphie has other issues too; it’s kinda embarrassing but,...well....he is just downright horny! (Note: He does have two you know)!! He was browsing around on the web and somehow got a hooked up with a printer. Wow did he fall fast! It was “Yahoo” at first sight! He even invited her to go out and Wiki with him sometime, but she just sat and spewed paper at him. Ralphie finally got fed up and decided to launcher, declaring, “I can do better!” With that said, he walked away leaving his floppy disk behind. You got to give the guy credit though cause he didn’t give up hope. As a matter of fact, Ralphie is out now looking for his next gig - he’s thinking “laptop.”
 * Written in response to a teacher demonstration in which we were to create a monster and a story..."techies think twice!"

A Patchwork of Places This was written is response to Gerri's prompt: //I Am From....//

By Nancy Sturm


 * //I am from a patchwork of places.//**

My parents, both proud to be Americans, served our country during World War II.

Mom, born and raised in the heartland, worked on her grandparents’ farm, and cooked and waited tables in her mother’s restaurant. When war called she joined the Waves and transferred to Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Dad, the youngest of three, grew up in New York City. His mother worked and raised three children alone in a time when single moms comprised a small minority. As soon as Dad turned 18, he joined the Army Air Corps, serving in Panama during the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Soon he traveled to London, then, three years later, to Atlantic City.

It truly was love at first sight. After only six weeks, they married—Mom in a white dress and veil, Dad in his military uniform.


 * //I am from a patchwork of places//****.** My heritage is Midwest farm and big city bustle.

Dad’s 24 years of military service carried him to three wars and his family to life in many locations. I lived in four different states: Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Wisconsin, and New Mexico, before my first memories, at age three, when we moved to Japan.

I am snow-topped Mt. Fuji. I am round faces with brown almond eyes. I am “ichi, ni, san, si, go, rocko” (one, two, three, four, five, six in Japanese).

Next, we moved to El Paso Texas, Madison Wisconsin, the island of Newfoundland in Eastern Canada, then to Las Vegas, Nevada, where I started junior high.
 * //I am from a patchwork of places//**//.//

I am from vast desert reaches and deep pine forests. I am from sand storms stinging my legs and frigid tumbling streams. I am from lizards, silverfish, cactus, and oblong lobster pots. I am from blazing desert suns and six foot snow drifts.
 * //I am from a patchwork of places.//**

Just before I started high school we moved to Kansas.
 * //I am from a patchwork of places//****.**

I am from flat prairie lands, green winter wheat, and clear blue skies. I am from oceans of waving grain, friendly people, and the air capital of the world.


 * //I am from a patchwork of places.//**

But I am more than the separate pieces. I am from a family who loved, no matter where we lived. I am from patriotism, even when disagreeing with policy. I am from hard work and dedication, in spite of separation.

Sewing together the separate pieces with threads of love, compassion, and understanding of other cultures has made me so much more than a patchwork of places.

My patchwork of places has created a beautiful, varied, warm, comforting quilt.

Student Voices—They DO Know Persuasion

By Nancy Sturm

Aw, Ms. Sturm, we don’t really have to write another persuasive essay, do we? Everyone in the class did such a great job on the first one; we really don’t need any more practice! Honest! We promise we’ll write so well on the state assessment we’ll all score exemplary. E-X-E-M-PL-ARY! Exemplary! Exemplary!

We like you soooo much. Worry about you. Don’t spend hours and hours of your free time grading! Get a life! Have some fun!

We have lives too! Big game tomorrow. Double shifts at work. Grandmother is in the hospital. Brother’s home from college. Big calculus test. Huge project due.

Please. Please. Please! You don’t want us all to have nervous breakdowns, do you? Post traumatic stress. Fatigue leads to car wrecks. You don’t want to have to visit us in the hospital, do you?

Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite teacher? Really like your outfit. Makes you look thinner. New haircut? Makes you look younger. Never had such a great English teacher. You are my all time favorite!

Aw, come on! Pleeeease. What? What’s that you say? Change the due date from Friday to Monday? Ms. Sturm rocks!


 * The Odd Duck’s Dance

by Nancy Sturm**

My writing group wanders in the park, drinking in the beauty of nature and finding some quiet place to write. I sit on the edge of a small stone bridge and observe the water below. Closing my eyes, I focus on the gurgle of the man-made waterfall rushing over the rocks, running, running…where? Why is it in such a hurry?

The roaring of a near-by riding mower, like some prehistoric beast with large appendages protruding from its sides, distracts my attention for a moment. Then an odd duck, like a cross between a duck and a vulture, waddles into view. He, like the riding mower, looks as if he belongs in a prehistoric time. The duck is mostly black and brown, with his neck and breast primarily white. What catches my attention, though, are his head and the upper part of his neck. Both are bright red, very bumpy, and waxy-looking. Then, he begins a walk that is stranger than his looks. As he waddles forward, his head and neck bob up and down and out in an odd, undulating, ritualized dance. While waddling, he hisses loudly, a noise that sounds as if he is struggling to breathe. Is he trying to frighten us? Claim his turf? Impress his mate? When he walks past me, I see that his tail wags too. Bobbing, hissing, and wagging, he moves toward a nearby pair of ducks. Suddenly, one of this pair of ducks mimics his strange dance.

Now I realize the two males are showing off for the female duck. For a time, she ignores them both, turns her back and walks away. Trying even harder to capture her attention, the second male’s neck and upper chest bend so low they brush the top of the grass-covered field. Both ducks seem very proud of their looks and actions, bobbing, hissing and wagging their tails, desperately working to impress the girl. After several minutes of this odd behavior, the second duck, apparently winning the female duck’s favor with his peculiar dance, walks away with the girl, leaving the first duck all alone.

Chastened, the would-be suitor walks away—no more hissing voice, no more undulating neck, no more wagging tail. He waddles to the little waterfall and stands in the cool water, letting it run over his webbed feet. Heart-broken, he dips his head repeatedly in the water, then stretches skyward, shaking his head, wagging his tail feathers. He appears to be cleaning up, preening, or perhaps salvaging his wounded pride.

As I meditate on this odd duck’s bizarre behavior, I wonder about similar human behavior. How often are we prideful like the duck? We hiss and preen, longing to be noticed, “Look at me. Look at me.” We strut around hissing at others, seeking our own way. “Me, me, me. Do it my way.” We stick out our heads and crane our necks. “I can do it. I am self-sufficient.” And we preen and we strut, in an odd, self-absorbed dance. Eventually, we realize we can’t always do it our way, and we walk away, egos bruised. We dip our heads in the water, trying to clean off our pride, our shame, our disappointment.

It is then, when we are broken, that we stretch our arms and hearts upward and turn humbly to our God. “God, I can’t do this any more. I am not capable. I am not strong. Help me,” we plead. Then, the miracle occurs. Then, God’s peace descends. No longer is it all about “me.” No longer must we hiss and preen to be noticed. We become cleansed in the water of His spirit, willing to rely on His strength, His wisdom, His love. In giving up the need to be noticed, or in having things our own way, we grow stronger, we grow wiser. Now, instead of hissing and dancing to be noticed, we walk confidently and humbly, hoping others will notice God in us.

by Shirleen Augustine and Kendra Stuever**
 * Wind Tall Tale

Have you ever wondered why the Native Americans never settled in Kansas?

They rode the wind on their painted ponies over the seemingly endless prairie. It was as if they were white-water rafting, bumping along the molehills, and finally slowing against the mountain ranges.

When the first settlers saw the fertile Kansas land, they desperately tried to farm and live here. But eventually, the wind would start whistling through the tall grass and wrap itself around the settlers. It would pluck the people from their covered wagons and carry them up over the mountains to set them gently down on the west coast.

However, one small group of settlers was a bit different. Elisabeth Irons and her family traveled toward the plains of Kansas. They kept hearing that all of the settlers before them never returned. What a mystery! Elisabeth decided to send the family pet ducks, Marie and Arthur, to fly ahead to find out what was happening. Marie and Arthur came back and described how the winds were carrying the settlers away.

The woman was quite concerned. “How can I keep my family from blowing away?”

Along the side of the wagon paths, she found parts left from wagons that came before them, old wagon axels and the like. Unbeknownst to her family, Elisabeth began to grind up the metal objects, and little by little, added the shavings into the food of her family and their animals.

As the Irons family approached Kansas, they were getting heavier and heavier. The animals and the wagon were leaving deep tracks as they traveled. These tracks eventually filled with rain and became the rivers of Kansas.

Finally, they reached what they considered the middle of Kansas. They were so heavy by this time that the wind could not lift them.

Elisabeth and her family planted trees to keep the soil in place. Between the trees they planted wheat to make food. There was a large crater in the area where the ducks nested that filled with rainwater to make a pond. They built a small house from the rocks uncovered by the wind.

Eventually Elisabeth shared her secret with her family. Once a month, a couple of them would ride back to Missouri to warn the coming settlers. Eventually all of the settlers would stop in the springs in the Missouri hills to retrieve iron pills from the wellness experts.

Unfortunately for Elisabeth and her family, the ground-up axels were stronger than the iron pills. Eventually all of them became too heavy to move. You can still catch a glimpse of them standing all around Kansas, even Marie and Arthur.


 * __Uninhibited__**
 * By Amy Morrow**

Grayce had walked past Abercrombie and Fitch and Hollister signs depicting testosterone filled young men with unbuttoned jean flaps, which seemed to invite the young teens who passed by the store fronts in to see more, a thousand times before. As the beat of the hip-hop music blares and carries the teens into the store, their sexual curiosities are abounding. The young teen girl hadn’t stopped before, but today was different. She would dare to venture into the store that had been forbidden by her parents.

Grayce slips into the dark mysterious store with inhibitions abounding, as she is guided by signs that read “Betty’s” to the right and “Dudes” to the left. “What will I find in this store that Mom and Dad are so adamant about me not entering?” she asks herself, as she looks at the pictures adorning the walls of the store depicting young love.

“They are not with me today,” she thinks quietly to herself, “It can’t hurt to just enter for a second.” The atmosphere is fun, carefree; leave your inhibitions and worries at the door. The store takes her to a place far from Kansas. As she walks through the store, Grayce finds herself being carried on an ocean wave to a beach in California, or Cuba. She has caught a gnarly wave on the slick, newly greased board propped up against a worn, salt water beaten shudder hanging in the store.

The adrenaline begins flowing like a river through her veins, as the pulse and beat of the music begins to make her heart start racing. “I love the clothes and the freedom that it allows me. . . . Mom and Dad would not want me here,” Grayce thinks to herself.

The walls are adorned with young boys and girls enraptured in each other. Grayce had wanted to wait for this depicted intimacy later in life. Abstinence had been preached to her, but looking at the hot, luscious, barely clad boys on the wall made her begin to wonder about what that sort of intimacy would be like. Dating was not something Grayce was participating in at this time in her life.

“Naïve, that’s what I am!” echoes in Grayce’s head, “No wonder Mom and Dad don’t want me to stop, or dress in these clothes.” Grayce decides to make a choice on her own and decides to try on some outfits. “After all, they are “on sale” and half the price they would normally be,” she innocently thinks to herself, “I have a job and earn my own money. I can spend it as I like.”

Grayce proceeds to daydream as she looks at the racks of clothes on sale, taking her to a sandy, warm beach with the ocean breeze gently blowing over her and the “young hottie” lying next to her.

“Can I help you?” a young, vibrant saleslady asks Grayce, interrupting her mid-shopping daydreams.

“Uh-yeh!” replies Grayce as she begins blushing uncontrollably.

Clothes begin flying off the racks as she madly puts outfits together. Soon the dressing room is filled and heaping with clothes. As each outfit is tried on, Grayce’s inhibitions begin floating away “like a soft, fluffy, white down feather floating up to heaven”. Grayce walks confidently up to the sales counter that depicts a scene out of a Cuban movie, in which cigars, magazines, and other toiletries are sold from the deep, dark, chestnut wood counter and shelves.

As Grayce departs the store, she is glowing and feeling “uninhibited”. Next stop. . . . Victoria’s Secret!

By Dan Whisler**
 * Fuel For the Fire...

Having taught high school science classes for 22 years, I’ve definitely seen a lot of changes in education over the years and, no, not all of them are good. If I could change one thing in education today, it would, without a doubt, be the whole concept of No Child Left Behind and Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP).

Teachers and schools are an important part of a child’s learning process, but we are just that, a part. For learning to really take place, though, there are other roles that must be played, like the part played by the student that wants to learn and the part played by the parent taking an active role in their child’s learning. Like the fire triangle where you need to have a fuel source, oxygen, and a source of ignition for a fire to occur, the learning triangle needs a willing student, involved parents, and a caring teacher for learning to take place. Like the fire, if any one of these three is missing the candle of learning goes out.

Looking closely at the three components of the learning triangle, it is easy to see the difference a caring teacher can make, as having a mentor take a personal interest is the source of ignition from which a blazing fire can burst. Teachers are professionals trained and excited to provide that spark, but for the fire to begin burning this spark must land near a combustible source, a student ready and willing to learn. For this to happen, the student’s basic needs must first be met, and more and more it seems this has become a responsibility of the schools. As the age of the student increases, so, too, should the individual responsibility for their own learning. Just as it is very difficult to get wet wood to burn, it is extremely challenging to help a student that isn’t ready and doesn’t want to learn. Getting the fire started, though, can be done, but to keep it lit and see it build from a tentative and fragile flame to a fire burning bright, it must have a continual source of oxygen throughout the day and night. If a student is excited about the day and the opportunities being created through this learning, but this excitement isn’t shared when they go home, the effect is like shutting the damper on a wood stove, and the fire that was burning bright now just smolders and could soon die out. A parent that takes an active role in their child’s learning provides the oxygen so vital to the fire, fanning the flames and strengthening the fire, allowing the fire to burn bright day and night.

To make the whole concept of NCLB worse, the requirements of AYP place teachers and schools in a situation where we are given the same fuel source and the same amount of oxygen, yet told we must make the fire burn brighter each year until it is burning with 100% efficiency? Is that possible? Is it possible to use different types of firewood and produce the same amount of heat? Is it possible to take students that are entering our classrooms at widely differing points in their educational journeys and get them all to the same place in the same amount of time, yet provide educational opportunities to challenge each of them in the process?

Is it possible to get the educational fires in our students and in our schools to burn brighter? Absolutely! For starters, no matter how hard we try, a great deal of learning cannot be assessed by multiple choice, data-friendly questions, so instead of having the emphasis and funding focused on testing students, put the time and financial emphasis on teaching students. That personal interaction in the classroom is when and where the most learning takes place, yet it is that time and interaction that seems to be decreasing more every year. Then, to help the fires burn brighter, there is one last thing I would suggest. What do we do with all of the extra assessments and paperwork created through NCLB and AYP? Simple, we use it as fuel for the fire!

Snapshots of a high school hallway during passing period. - Teralyn Cohn
Young men forced to shuffle along holding on to their waistbands to avoid the dropping of drawers incites frustration on the part of the adults. Don’t they know what “sagging” means?

Girls exploring their sensuality and sexuality saunter through the halls attracting passionate gazes, envious stares and angry verbal responses. Who knew one’s wardrobe choice could arouse so many different emotional reactions?

Freshmen scamper and scurry to their next class during the first weeks, fearing the wrath of the teacher if they were to arrive late to class. Second semester freshmen have slowed to a meander or a mosey having figured out exactly how much business can be conducted during the seven minute break between knowledge infusion sessions.

Teachers stride to their assigned position on the perimeter as they watch the ballet of teen angst play out on a daily basis. Their posture reflects their emotional response to the hallway dance and the day’s events; the veteran department chair slumps with weariness holding up the wall while the first year teacher uses broad gestures relaying the success of her lesson during the last period.

The mentor teacher leans in to hear the description as in an attempt to siphon off some of that energy for the next class. Security guards and administrators patrol the walkways insuring that movement continues in a semi-orderly fashion. Staff approaching a plan period relax and pause for communication with students as they pass, keeping their radar sharp for the strut of a cocky troublemaker or the plodding of a woeful student who needs a kind word.

Seniors strut with pride and exuberance, juniors jog with ambition, sophomores stroll with reticence and freshmen fly to their next class, their next locker hook up, or lunch.

High school hallways are a collection of movement which can be studied to determine the emotional temperature of the population. What does your gait tell others about you?

By Rachel Warren and Sandy Foster
One upon a time, there was a terrible dilemma in the nation’s schools. The retirement of billions of baby boomer teachers caused a severe teacher shortage, a nationwide crisis. In desperation to fill those hard-to-fill math and science positions, the illustrious Kansas State Board of Education had a brilliant idea: to lower the standards for teacher licensure so that anyone with a degree can teach. Today Principal Corkins introduces the new math teacher to the math classes of Anywhere Junior High.

Principal: We’ve done a nationwide search to find just the right teacher for your math classes. Miss Nickelby (spelled NCLB) proudly graduated from the “Become a Teacher in 6 Weeks” program at Dumbdown University. She will be preparing you for these all-important state assessments.

The first math session went something like this:

Miss NCLB: Today, class, we’re going to study angels. Yale: Don’t you mean angles? Winnie: What’s the difference between an acute and an obtuse angle? Miss NCLB: Well, a cute angel has a cherubic face and a cute little hair-do like me! An obtuse angel is grossly overweight. (Probably it’s spent too much time hovering over orange carpet!) Yale: Don’t you mean an acute angle is one with fewer than 90 degrees, and an obtuse – not obese - angle has more than 90 degrees? Miss NCLB: Enough about angels. Let’s talk about mean, median, and mode. Now, you know what mean is. Nobody likes you when you’re mean! Winnie: But what does that have to do with a set of numbers? Miss NCLB: Anyone can get a little mean when they have to look at that many numbers all at once! Yale: I think you mean that the mean is the average of those numbers. Miss NCLB: You think I’m mean? Why, you haven’t even given me a chance! Now for the median; you know, that middle section in the highway? Winnie: And the middle of the highway is somehow connected to this math lesson? Miss NCLB: Well, if you cross the median, you’ll be dealing with a lot of numbers, from car insurance to hospital bills to traffic tickets! Yale: Like the middle of the highway, median just means middle. Find the number that falls in the middle! Miss NCLB: Now, I think your books have a misprint. If you will all find where it talks about M-O-D-E, just take your pens and write an L on the end. They misspelled model. You know, I wanted to be a model before they lowered the standards so that I qualified to teach. Winnie: This is the most confusing lesson we’ve ever had! What does modeling have to do with anything? Yale: It is most confusing because mode is not a misprint of model. Mode means most. Which number is listed the most times? Miss NCLB: Wow, Yale. Are you going to be a teacher like me when you grow up? Yale: No. I’ve set my bar a little higher. Miss NCLB: Bar? Is it happy hour tonight?

Yale graduated from law school and practiced a few years before running for the state board of education. Soon after, he was appointed to the President's Council on Education Reform, determined that no students would suffer through a teacher like Miss NCLB.

(Dedicated to my Dad….) By Dan Whisler**
 * Real Dads….

Real Dads know that little kids won’t be little kids for very long, so they make the most of every moment. Real Dads change diapers. Real Dads like to bake and cook...and even clean up the kitchen when they are done. Real Dads charge a hug and a kiss for every waffle they fix...regardless of who they are fixing it for.

Real Dads enjoy going to games and watching their kids do their best...and don’t worry about who is the best. Real Dads know that loving your kids may mean you can’t always be their friend. Real Dads know that while time may be short, tempers don’t have to be. Real Dads know it is ok to cry.

Real Dads show affection to their kids and to their wife in front of the kids. Real Dads enjoy celebrating Mothers Day as much as Fathers Day. Real Dads love getting pictures of and from their kids as presents. Real Dads sometimes do without so their kids don't have to.

Real Dads spend more time helping and less time fishing on most fishing trips. Real Dads know that little bluegill are "trophy fish" in their little angler's eyes and make sure to get pictures of those, too. Real Dads hunt with their kids….and sometimes carry the shells and snacks to the blind while their kids carry the gun. Real Dads know that little girls enjoy the outdoors and “Daddy time”, too.

Real Dads focus on the yard that looks great after it was mowed without any asking….and not on the sprinkler that was accidentally mowed, too. Real Dads take vacations...and they take their wife and kids on these vacations. Real Dads know there is more to life than work. Real Dads know that all the time invested in spending time with their kids while they are growing will bring about a return no money could ever buy.